


absolution

by professortennant



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Episode: s04e09 Scorched Earth, F/M, Gentleness, Unresolved Sexual Tension, reassurance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 02:21:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15596109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: “It wasn’t your fault,” she offers, softly.He scoffs and keeps his eyes skyward. “Didn’t you see what I did? I almost killed Daniel. I gave the order. I--”“Daniel almost killed Daniel, sir.” She watches him frown and stare down at the Guinness, fingers picking at the label. “You gave the order any commanding officer would give. You were doing your job, sir, when you made that decision. And Daniel knew the risks when he made his.”





	absolution

When she finds him, he’s sitting on the steps of his back porch with his fingers wrapped around the neck of a Guinness and his head tilted back, jaw clenched and looking up at the stars. 

She slips her shoes off at the edge of his yard and crosses the rest of the way barefoot, feet sinking into the soft grass. It doesn’t matter that she’s barefoot and moving quietly, he hears her anyway. 

“What are you doing here, Carter?”

His voice rings out, loud and harsh against the quiet of the night and the chirp of crickets and the groan of cicadas. Despite the anger in his voice, she knows it’s directed at himself, not her. She keeps walking towards him and when she takes a seat next to him, she sits a little closer than normal. Their hips press together and she nudges his knee with hers and slips her fingers beneath his, taking the beer from his hands. 

He frowns at her and murmurs, “Thief,” under his breath. But he doesn’t make a move to take the bottle back and she feels his eyes on her as she takes a long pull and licks her lips. 

She hands him the bottle back wordlessly and he takes it with a long-suffering sigh. “What are you doing here?” he repeats, eyes falling briefly to her bare toes and then tilting back up towards the stars. She can see the muscles of his jaw clench and unclench, see his hand tighten around the bottle.

“It wasn’t your fault,” she offers, softly. 

He scoffs and keeps his eyes skyward. “Didn’t you see what I did? I almost killed Daniel. I gave the order. I--”

“ _Daniel_  almost killed Daniel, sir.” She watches him frown and stare down at the Guinness, fingers picking at the label. “You gave the order any commanding officer would give. You were doing your job, sir, when you made that decision. And Daniel knew the risks when he made his.”

The muscle of his cheek twitches and he continues to shred the label, little wet and sodden pieces of paper falling onto the porch step. She tilts her head, lips pursed in thought. “That’s not what’s bothering you, though.”

He freezes, fingers stilling on the bottle, cheek muscle twitching. She waits for him to tell her. She knows him well enough to know it’s what she has to do--wait and he will let it come spilling forth. 

“If it was you on that ship, I don’t know if I could have....” His voice is soft and husky, so different to the tone with which he greeted her. She reaches for him, fingers wrapping around his wrist and tugs his hand into her lap. His breath hitches at the contact and, beneath her fingers, she can feel his heart rate pick up. 

“Sir,” she starts before correcting herself. “Jack,” she corrects. His head snaps to hers, eyes dark and she pockets the information that the use of his name reduces him to this look: wild and wanting and pleading. She strokes her fingers over the inside of his wrist. 

“I wouldn’t have been on the ship in the first place.” 

She laughs at his frown and open mouth, the beginnings of protest on his lips. “You gave the order, Jack. End of story. I go where you lead.”

He turns his hand over in hers, tangles their fingers together and lets out a sigh of relief, sags a little towards her and presses their shoulders together so they are flush shoulder to hip to thigh to knee. 

“What if I lead you wrong?”

His eyes are downcast and she knows it’s not the first time he’s asked himself this; knows it’s something that haunts him--haunts any good commander worth their salt. She tightens her grip on his hand and leans her head on his shoulder, nuzzling her cheek against the soft flannel of his shirt. 

“You won’t,” she reassures him. She wants to turn her head and press a kiss to the center of his heart, wants to feel his pulse thundering beneath her lips. She wants to tilt her head up and drag him into the grass and kiss him while surrounded by cool open air and the starlight on their skin. They  _deserve_  that. He deserves that. 

“How do you know?” he insists, cheek resting against the top of her head and letting out a shuddering sigh. These fleeting moments of contact and touch, the parts of them that no room can keep sealed off, are becoming the balm to his heart that he desperately needs and yearns for. 

She lifts her head off his shoulder and smiles at him--his favorite smile, all soft lips and gentle upturned corners and the barest hint of tongue behind her teeth. She disentangles their hands and she reaches for his face, lets the pads of her fingers trace over his brow and nose and lips, over the curve of his cheek. He shudders under his touch, eyes fluttering closed and the tension of the previous mission leeching from his soul and into her fingers with each touch. 

She’s magic like that. 

“I know,” she says. “Because you’re a good man, Jack O’Neill.”

When his eyes open, she feels her heart pick up in pace at the emotion in his eyes, dark with desire and appreciation for her. He drops the bottle between his legs, the clink of glass echoing between them, and he mirrors her touch, cupping her face and staring at her intently. 

His eyes flicker from her eyes to her mouth and her breath hitches, tongue sneaking out to lick her dry lips. It would be so easy-- _so easy--_ to take absolution not just from her words but from her lips, her tongue, her body. 

It would be so easy to slide forward and tumble down to the grass and press her into the wet, soft grass and let her cradle him between her thighs; let her lips lick and suck away his pain and give him life; let her fingertips dance across his shoulders and back and buttocks and pull him in close to her body and never let him go.

“Sam?” he questions, voice husky and head tilting and swaying forward. “We said we’d leave it in the room. This--this isn’t leaving it--”

“I know,” she says hurriedly, fingers falling away from his face with a look of regret. He catches her hand and holds it before pressing a single, trembling and chaste kiss to the back of her hand, nose nuzzling against her soft skin. 

“You should go,” he mumbles against the skin of her hand. He shifts away from her, their hips and knees separating and he tries to ignore the way her face falls and the way she runs her thumb over the back of her hand where his lips were just a few moments ago. 

 _I don’t want to go_  hovers on the tip of her tongue and she swallows it down, locks whatever it is they’ve leaked out tonight back in the room, and pretends that her hand isn’t burning from the heat of his lips. 

She stands and steps off the porch, feet back in the cool grass, a cooling balm to the heat rushing through her. She tilts her head, slides her hands into the back pocket of her jeans, and rocks on her feet. 

“See you tomorrow, sir?”

He nods, clearing his throat and draining the last few sips of warm beer from the bottle, tossing the now-empty glass into the recycling bin over his shoulder. His heart is significantly lighter, still burdened, but lighter and absolved with her words, her faith, her love. 

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck and through his hair and nods at her, grinning boyishly at her. “Couldn’t keep me away, Major.”

 _Sir_ and  _Major_ slip over their shoulders like a heavy, well-worn coat and she takes another lingering look at him, memorizing the play of light across his face, the casual, easy stance, the way the flannel shirt clings to his arms and stomach in a way that makes her want to drag him inside and strip him down.

But it’s time to leave. They’re going to be okay.  _He’s_  going to be okay.

And she will see him tomorrow (and pretend that she didn’t feel his eyes on her backside on the walk back to her Indian, pleading with her silently to turn back around and never leave). 

One day, she won’t leave. 


End file.
